12.28pm a cheap and tacky blue watch attached to my wrist reads. Time for lunch. 

Ahead of me, I could see the comforting  brand of Subway standing boldly and attractively above my head. Ah, that little cube of food heaven is like my second home; the supplier of my existence.  A juicy, gigantic foot long sub is just the absolutely perfect way to satisfy and melt away these toxic pangs of anxiety that have been writhing inside of me, like a pit of snakes. 

I had to embark upon the agonizing 35 minute journey over here on foot. Usually, I would just take the bus. But this time, I had to trundle and waddle my body across the entirety of our local town of Bedworf. Reason being equals I had no money. Another snake adds itself to the fray at the thought of this. If you ever had the misfortune to see me walk, it's quite a comical sight. My waddling (trademarked) would struggle to shame a flock of geese, and more than once had I heard sniggering and even  a few mutterings of "whoaa, what a whale!" as I took step after difficult step. I didn't blame them. I would probably laugh too if I could see myself. People were always shocked at the sight of me. But at least I was exercising, right?

With bundles of sweat lathered on every surface and crevice of my body, I stagger unceremoniously into the crowded shop. A teen boy in a Superdry Jacket and a blonde girl in leggings dodge my loud puffs for air as I stand there, slightly bent over,  trying to create a hurricane out of my exhalations. The traditional look of barely muffled surprise swept towards me from every angle, except from the counter where David, dressed in a green Subway uniform, was adding some 'freshly' cut lettuce from a container. There were still a few annoyed stares from the customers trying to enjoy a nice and pleasant lunch as I join the queue. Sucks for them, not gonna happen, ha. 

It is such an unburdening relief to have Subway. I had been coming here for years, and David had always blessed me with a free sandwich. Money was tighter than ever, which meant I practically had none. My bank account read £10.83, which meant I would have to survive on tiny pieces of tinned food for the rest of the week if not for David's blossoming career as an artist in Sandwiches. Shifting up the queue, I once again see him in the crux of his 'design', as David so often says. Looking at him in action now, despite my natural filter for mocking skepticism, I couldn't help but acknowledge David gave each and every new filling container a sort of sweet tender care, as if he were nurturing and gently wrapping a baby in warm clothing. What an image. Wrapped and plumped to be fed to monsters like me.

"Hi, there. Welcome to Subway!" one of David's young and cheery co-workers greets me with a close to freakishly white smile. "How can I help you today, sir?" 

But before I can utter even a single syllable, David leaps towards us. Not like a lion attacking a gazelle, but more like a member of the bomb squad saving an ignorant individual from a life-destroying explosion. "It's okay, Will, I've got this", he says quickly, making me feel like I'm just a piece of complicated luggage. His old ghetto accent was re-attached. I suppose it would confuse the customers too if his 'new and improved' voice was uttered. It was like flicking a switch.

"Hey FatFace" he says with a busy sigh, "what can I shove down your piehole today?" The words didn't faze me. He had been saying the same line to me for years now. They were like a mantra towards opening the delicate dance of food selection. 

"Dave, hey" I say, trying to attach a smile somewhere in the middle of my face. "Meatball sub, foot long". 

"No problem, mate". He immediately begins delicately to carve my sub, slicing perfectly between the bread roll and carefully placing the meatballs inside. With hands of seven years experience, David could get extremely upset at even the smallest mistake, but luckily that was never very often. 

"So how did your battle with the Unemployment Sharks go?" he asks with casual innocence as he gently pushes the toasting machine closed, but we both knew the true root of the inquiry. 

"Uhhh..." I utter only, wishing I was better at summoning some amazing problem-solving tale that would completely and utterly satisfy Dave's question without causing, at least some, disappointment. But never had I been such a person , and that was never more clear today. "Uhh..." I continued, seeming to enter some kind of religious trance. 

Two shiny-clad and bulked-up businessmen, casually tucking into their foot-long sandwiches, turn their eyes towards me, seemingly amused by my Western adaptation of a Buddhist monk. They appeared to be of a similar age to me, yet fit and well-groomed; the complete opposite of me in every way except age. Our only connection being that I was entering an embarassed speechlessness while they were receiving a growing show of hilarity that was on the periphery of their happily busy lives, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy break through the surface of humliation. And Supersh thought I couldn't be an entertainer, well look at me now! 

"They're cutting your benefits, that's it, right?" David demands suddenly, slicing through my delirium. He had been staring at me all the while with an eyebrow slowly traveling closer and closer to his hairline, and I couldn't help but shudder when he shouted the word 'benefits'. Of all the ways David and I were different, our social anxiety levels were the greatest. I hated being publicly shamed (basically, my life), yet he didn't even acknowledge its existence.

"...uhh, yeah" I said, literally forcing the syllable in only the tiniest tendril greater than a whisper. It wasn't that I was specifically ashamed of being on benefits, nor even the fact that benefits had in fact rejected me. What pierced the bubble of my shakily erected tower of self-confidence was disappointing David: the one person in the world who ever helped me in the times in which I most needed it. Sincerely. And for everyone to know that David was aware I had failed amplified my own acute sense of shame. The only judgement that could pierce the barrier. More people were glancing in our direction, expressing care in simply observing the spectacle in the middle of the shop rather than possessing some kind of productive observance. 

But I didn't have time to dwell upon that for long when David bangs his fist on the shiny table top! "Oh, that's absolutely perfect James, why couldn't you just put a tinsy bit of effort into finding some kind of work?! At least try and pretend you are trying! Now what are you going to do?!" He looks at me, eyes bulging, his trademark nonchalant calmness replaced automatically with an eye-boggling, incredulous stare that wouldn't shame a circus performer. It was pretty shocking, even if they were obvious questions that had been spinning around in my brain ever since I departed that gloomy office. 

I had the entire shop's attention now. Supersh's doubts were more unnecessary than ever.. And lucky them for David's swelling anger was just getting started. "After I've done to try and help you out..." he continues, voice softer now, the pain in his words shining through "...you repay me with THIS?! You won't even help yourself. Not even one fat finger to save your life!" He sneers, nastily.  

Oh, but he's not done. Ripping open the oven, he whips out my Meatball sub and hurls it at me with so much force that it hits me with a loud SPLAT!. "THERE'S YOUR FOOD, YOUR LAST ONE" He yells, pure rage emanating from every vocal cord, and at a volume just about capably heard by human ears. 

 With every inch of my massive body in utter shock, I couldn't even hear the collective gasp, nor sense the stinging silence of everyone in that rectangular room of what was once a calm and jovial atmosphere of pleasure eating. Not even the perfect businessmen were laughing now. I couldn't respond. What could I say? My Flight or Fight mindset was screaming 'FLIGHT! FLIGHT! SOAR INTO THE SKY!' Leaving was the only option. And so I do. 

As I stumble towards the door, stunned, with a rapidly cooling slice of bread being cradled pathetically in the crevice of my left elbow, I just try and think of any other possible situation which could posses a greater low point than this. When people talk of low points, they really haven't met me. Because otherwise, they would be throwing a party, dancing around the room and rejoicing as if they were dining at a feast after a glorious and victorious battle that they had a life that didn't involve being me. I'd bet my BMI on it.